TGIF in Lexington

"I mean in properties. I'm not involved in selling them myself—only in showing them to clients and providing other services. But it would be nice to know whether you were interested in any of them."

"Yes, I'm interested in the one we saw this afternoon and the one just southwest of Lexington, the one against the mountains."

"Then I suggest that you contact Townsend as soon as possible. I'm showing them to another client this weekend. I shouldn't be telling you that, but I've found that—"

"I've found you much more to my liking than I thought I would, Cody," he said, giving me a concerned look. "And this afternoon, if it was too much . . . I mean, I'm sorry . . . it's just that I have special needs. Ever since I returned to England from Chechnya—"

"You don't have to explain or be sorry about anything," I said, interrupting him and taking my hand from underneath his and reaching up and stroking his cheek. "I told you before. Anything you want."

"Are you sure?" he asked, his eyes searching out mine and holding them, boring into them, begging them. "I think you may be surprised and put off by what I really want. What I want is very kinky, but it gets me off."

"Yes," I said, "anything you want. Anything. I trust you. I know you won't give me more pain than pleasure." I couldn't imagine what could be more kinky than what he'd done already—or that he could get off any better than he already had. But I'd told him I was completely open to his demands. I didn't think I should mention the contract. By the contract he'd paid for, my answer had to be yes. But I didn't want this to hinge on the money and obligation involved. He obviously was deeply troubled in his life. He'd told me after we'd had sex that afternoon that he no longer could be fully satisfied unless he took it, unless he was rough in taking it. He hadn't come close to saying anything about atrocities he'd seen—and possibly participated in—in Chechnya. And I didn't want to know about any of them.

"Have I satisfied you so far? Have I let you have what you wanted?" I had asked, tentatively, afraid of what the answer might be—or how much rougher he would get if he hadn't been satisfied and wanted the full value of his contract.

"Yes, oh yes," he answered.

"Then there isn't any more to be said. I surrender to whatever you want from me."

We'd taken the two rooms at the B&B. They were side by side and the only rooms on the hallway. But we both knew what we'd be doing tonight—and that we'd be doing it in my room. I took the most remote of the two, to be as private as possible. It was what could be called expensive rustic contemporary—all wood walls and rough-wood furniture, but a wall of glass overlooking the valley and with a huge hot tub.

"If it maximizes your pleasure," I said in the shadows of the terrace softly lit by strings of fairy lights, "then take me as you wish. Just tell me—show me—what you want."

"Then, perhaps . . . tonight . . . you'll wear these for me." He had brought a briefcase to dinner with him and he now reached into it and took out a plastic bag, which he placed on the table. I turned the opening of the bag toward me, put my hand in, and drew out material in a snow-white shimmering silk. Looking around again to ensure we were alone, I took a closer look at the material: panties, a small-cup bra, and a sheer slip. I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't nearly as taxing as I thought it would be. The man had already strapped me with his belt. I was imaging something far worse than role playing a woman for him.

"Will you wear these to bed, let me steal into your room, and struggle with me as I take you by force?"

"Yes, if that's what would pleasure you," I answer.

"I would take you roughly and totally."

"You can have what you want."

* * * *

I didn't even hear him come into the room—not until he was on top of me and overpowered me—I did try to struggle, but there was nothing doing with that—and had flipped me on my stomach, straddled me, tied my wrists and ankles together with leather strips, and put a pillow over my head to muffle my cries. He'd come in with a pistol—a toy one, I hoped and prayed—and dug the barrel of it up under my chin when he first landed on top of me. He held it there until I realized I was defeated and went docile for him. Then he'd bound me to erase all hope of escape, and I didn't see the gun again.

I could hear his heavy breathing and smell his enticing musky scent. The room was dark, but moonlight was coming in through the wall of glass, mostly through the panel where the drapes had been pulled aside and were billowing in the breeze. So, he had come in from the balcony. That was part of his fantasy. We had adjoining rooms with a door between them. And I hadn't locked the door to the corridor. But he'd wanted to come in using stealth.

He was straddling my hips and I could tell that he was naked—and in erection—as his cock was slapping against the small of my back, as he grabbed and pinched me here and there with his hands. I cried out as he grasped the sheer silk of the back panel of the slip, but he pressed my head down on the pillow with one hand, smashing my face into the mattress. I bucked and he rode my hips, emitting a low laugh. He worked fingers into the leg hole of the panties and then, roughly, into my hole. One, two, three fingers, up to the knuckles, as he pressed down on the pillow with the other hand and rode my bucking hips. After a minute of knuckle fucking me, with me opening to him shamelessly despite the forcing, I heard and felt the panties rip. He readjusted his position on my hips and worked his cock inside me.

I settled immediately into the rhythm of the fuck, going with him, even though he was dry humping me and it wasn't all pleasure. This apparently didn't satisfy him. The sting of leather on my now-bare back was more of a shock at first than painful, but he put more muscle into it, flogging and fucking me. I collapsed under him in sobs. The belt was laid aside, he ran his hands around my sides and under the cups of the bra, palming my pecs, and went into jockey at the races mode, hugging me close and pistoning me hard and deep. I came in the panties and he fucked on, interminably long considering how long a day he'd had and how far he'd traveled.

He eventually ejaculated deep inside me as well—the expected one, two, three blasts—and held here for several minutes, breathing heavily, a low growl coming up from deep inside him. I was whimpering and moaning.

He held there, going flaccid—but only half flaccid—inside me, his breath slowly calming. I had no illusions, though, that he was done. I remembered that he said he did doubles. And, sure enough, I felt him rouse himself and finish the job of ripping the slip, panties, and bra off me. He left the wrist and ankle restraints in place. His weight lifted off my body and I felt him pulling me up. He threw me over his shoulder and marched over to the hot tub, which was filled and bubbling. I whimpered I know not what to him, but he just muttered, "Shut up, bitch," and when he got to the hot tub, he dropped me in.

I went under the water in surprise, sputtering to find my head under the hot water. He climbed into the hot tub himself, grabbed a hank of hair on the back of my head, and pulled my face out of the water. I gasped for air, but while I was still taking it in, he dunked my head again. He did this twice more, laughing at my sputtering and gasping. Then he draped me half in and half out of the tub, with my bound wrists, which he'd switched from my back to in front of me, scraping the floor next to the hot tub. My knees were on the seat rimming the inside of the hot tub. He mounted me from behind and fucked me again.

After a few minutes of slow fuck, I felt a noose made out of his belt slip over my head and down to my throat. He tightened the noose and used the other end of the belt as reins to pull my head back and release it in the quickening rhythm of the fuck, while I sputtered and gagged.

I never remember coming before as massively as I did then.

After he'd ejaculated, he exited the tub and gently pulled me out as well. He unbound my wrists and ankles, and, using two towels, he patted my body dry, all the time kissing me and murmuring that he was sorry. He had completely changed demeanor.

"Did it satisfy you?" I asked.

Somewhat sheepishly he admitted that it had fully satisfied him—the first time he'd been that satiated since he had left Chechnya.

"Then there's nothing else to say—other than it was the fuck of my life." I gave him a grin, and he visibly relaxed.

"What now?" I asked.

"I'm exhausted. Let's just get some sleep," he asked.

"I can't imagine why you'd be tired," I said. But then I gave him a look to assure him that I was just teasing, took his hand, guided him over to the bed, spooned my buttocks into his crotch, and we were both asleep within minutes.

* * * *

We were both standing on the observation balcony of the Roanoke airport late the next morning, waiting for him to be called to his commuter flight back to Dulles and then on to Heathrow.

"I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer," he said. "We just had the one day—Friday. But I have a game Sunday night. I have to drop these trips into short periods of opportunity."

"It was worthwhile as long as you saw something you wanted to acquire," I answered.

"I most certainly saw something I'd like to acquire," he said, giving me a meaningful look. He placed a hand on my arm, but took it away almost immediately as we weren't the only ones on the observation deck. "I'd like to throw you to the deck out here and fuck the stuffing out of you," he said in a low voice.

"And we both know you can do that," I responded.

"Look, I am sorry for—"

"They were the best fucks I've had for some time," I interjected, but letting him finish with yet another apology.

"You know I'm not really Paul Metgev," he said. "I'd like to be honest about—"

"I know you're not. I knew who you were as soon as I saw you in the arrivals hall here yesterday. I follow European football. But we have to leave it there."

"And I'll bet you're not named Cody, either," he said.

"No, of course I'm not."

"Or a student at college here."

"Oh, fuck no."

"Or nineteen in a couple of weeks."

"I'm older."

"Well, that's a relief. You know, no one has let me . . . has taken me so high. I'd like to see you again."

"You know that's not allowed," I answered. "Sorry." And I was. "I think that's your plane I hear being called."

"Is it? Well, unfortunately it's too public up here to—"

"A handshake will have to do."

"Yes, I suppose you're right."

We each put our hand out. Each of us had something we were palming. We shook hands, he winked at me, and he turned and walked off. I looked at what he'd passed to me—a wad of fifty-dollar bills. Well, that was probably as it should be, I thought. Him emphasizing the reality that I was just a rent-boy, paid to give him a good time.

He walked a couple of steps and then turned, gave me a big smile and a salute, and then walked off to board his plane. I'd given him a slip of paper with my real name on it, address in New York, and cell phone number. The execs at Townsend would go ballistic if they found out I'd given my contact numbers to a client. But fuck 'em.

I stood there, watching him board his plane. As the plane taxied out to the runway, another plane was landing. My client for the weekend previews of the horse farms should be on the plane. I opened my briefcase and took out the sign with "Larkin" printed on it in bold letters.

I watched the passengers deplane, falling into my "who is it to be this time?" game. The contract on this one didn't call for "everything he wants," but it did include sex. There were only two possibilities this time, both dumpy-looking, but expensively dressed middle-aged men. All of the other passengers obviously were members of a college girls' lacrosse team from the evidence of their apparent age and perkiness and the lacrosse sticks they were pulling out of the plane.

One of two dumpy old men. It was hardly worth playing the game for, but I'd make a choice. Well, you can't win them all. Thank god for the Friday I had.